


Weather the Storm

by rosy_cheekx



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Bakery and Coffee Shop, Blizzards & Snowstorms, Christmas Fluff, Coffee Shops, Cold Weather, F/M, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Multi, POV Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Power Outage, Prompt Fic, Sharing Clothes, Snow, Tumblr Prompt, could be read as jmart and timsash, could be read as polycule, holiday fic, just so much fluff, or all platonic, you live your life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:41:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28370325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosy_cheekx/pseuds/rosy_cheekx
Summary: “Sasha, any word from Rosie?”“Mhmm. Two things. Firstly, power’s out in the whole building. Apparently there’s a bit of a blizzard. Elias said we can have the day off. Secondly, Elias said he’s promoting Tim to his personal ass-isstant.”Its snowing harder than Jon anticipated.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Sasha James/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Comments: 7
Kudos: 96





	Weather the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts: “It’s too cold for you to come out here without a jacket on” from the protective sentence starters! + flurries + holiday coffeeshop date
> 
> prompted on balanced_to_a_tea on tumblr!

It had been a few years since there had been a white Christmas. Snow in London didn’t last long anyway; it would be snowplowed off the streets and turn gray and slushy or melt under the trampling boots of passerby on their way to work or school. This meant that even when it did snow, no one held out much hope for it to last longer than a day, two at most.

All this to say that Jon didn’t think much of the snow when he saw the flurries drifting outside his bedroom window. It had clearly just started snowing– didn’t even seem like it was sticking. He really didn’t think he’d need a coat. His bus route took him less than a block away from the institute and he resented the way his puffy winter coat made him feel: bulky and heavy, restricted at his joints. His thick white woolen sweater, made with oversized yarn and thrown over his collared shirt, would work fine. He thought he looked rather fit like this, hair half-knotted and curling over his shoulders. Tim would give him shit for having an “academia” aesthetic but, he “ _worked in academics, Tim. Every aesthetic I have is an academia aesthetic._ ”

Jon was, as usual, the first person to arrive at the archives. Diligently, he began his workday ritual, cranking up the thermostat and pulling the day calendar on his office wall to reveal the 23 December and chuckling to himself at today’s cat: all grey and massive, green eyes staring at the observer innocently. Sasha was next, blustering in her red peacoat, calling a greeting, and shaking it off before hanging it on the coat hook in the bullpen. Then came Martin and Tim, who had begun carpooling after realizing they lived less than two blocks away from each other. Greetings from the pair, “Happy Early Christmas”es. Now, the quiet, empty archives hummed with life and warmth. Jon, now seated his desk in his small office, could hear the chatter taking place in the main office space, the electric kettle humming in the breakroom, the Christmas music being argued over from the small speakers. All felt right. The Archivist smiled to himself and settled into work.

-

“What the hell? Tim!”

“That wasn’t _me,_ Sash! I’m right here!”

“Calm down, you two. It was just the lights.”

The commotion outside his office confirmed to Jon that he wasn’t the only one whose office lights had suddenly blinked once and cut out. For just a moment he was reminded of Julia Montauk’s story about Mr. Pitch, but shook his head. They were _fine._ He stood and made his way to the breakroom, eyeing the also dark room, now lit by three phone torches. Being the underground section of the Institute meant they didn’t have much by way of windows, save for the single squat one high up in the breakroom, and Jon could see from here something was blocking the light that usually streamed through.

“I think it’s the whole Institute,” Jon offered unhelpfully. “Can one of you ring Rosie and check?” He turned and wandered absently into the breakroom to investigate the window. It was covered with snow. Frowning, Jon grabbed a chair and dragged it beneath the pane, climbing and pushing on the window.

“I think you need to unlatch it.”

“ _Jesus Christ, Martin!”_ Jon swayed and recovered his balance. How could he not hear such a large man come up behind him? He did try the latch though and pushed again. Once, twice, th-

“Fuck! Cold, cold, cold!” The snow that had piled up against the window had shifted and fallen through the gap Jon had so helpfully created; his face, glasses, and sweater generously dusted with cold and white. He sputtered and brushed it off himself, feeling dot of cold seep into his skin. The pane had been cleared though, and Jon could see, as he shoved the window closed again, blustering snow sweeping through the alleyway the window looked out on to. Jon turned back, seeing Martin’s face red with the effort of suppressing a laugh. “It’s snowing. Hard.”

“Yeah,” his voice wavered, lips parting in a warm smile. “I-I guessed that.” Even so, Martin offered Jon a hand and he took it, stepping off the now-wet chair with little grace. “Let’s see if there’s word from Rosie. Sasha was calling her when I came in.” Jon nodded wordlessly, holding Martin’s a little too long (it was so warm! And he was so cold) before letting go and leading Martin into the bullpen.

Sasha was lounging in her office chair, a finger curled in her thick hair, with her legs on her desk and her free hand holding her mobile to her ear. She was nodding, brow furrowed, and kicking Tim idly, who was perched on her desk, feet perched on the handles of one of her desk drawers and shining his torchlight in her eyes while she scowled at him. “Alright, brilliant Rosie. Tell Elias we send our warmest, _fondest_ regards. Especially Tim. Oh—What’s that, Tim?” She eyed her perched friend mischievously; his eyes were wide, and he shook his head vigorously. “Oh. Tim says to tell Elias that he’s deeply in love with him and has been since the day he started.” She listened for a moment and nodded gravely. “Mmhmm. Thank you Rosie. I’ll let him know. Happy Christmas!”

“You _little-_ ”

Jon cleared his throat and Tim snapped his head up, eyes alight with mirth. “Bossman, I’m being slandered! You can’t expect me not to defend myself.” Jon chose to ignore his comment, though his expression was soft.

“Sasha, any word from Rosie?”

“Mhmm. Two things. Firstly, power’s out in the whole building. Apparently there’s a bit of a blizzard. Elias said we can have the day off. Secondly, Elias said he’s promoting Tim to his personal _ass_ -isstant.” Tim howled and lunged at Sasha, who was giggling madly. Martin had lost it now too and was chuckling behind his hand at the scene of the taller woman scooting away on her rolling office chair from her dear friend. Even Jon scoffed, eyes following the pair affectionately. Jon didn’t notice he was shivering until he felt a warm hand on his shoulder. Looking up, he saw the silhouette of Martin.

“Are you cold? I’m feeling it too. I think the heat’s off with the power.”

Jon shrugged noncommittally, turning his eyes back to the vague forms of Sasha and Tim, who had given up on their wrestling and were sharing the office chair, Tim lounging across Sasha’s lap and scrolling on his phone. At this, Sasha perked up, nudging Tim. “If it’s gonna get cold in here and we have the day off, we should go get coffee! There’s a cute new place across the street from the park. _Steamed Beans_ or something.”

“Beaned Steams,” Tim mumbled under his breath, extricating himself from Sasha’s lap and getting to his feet, smoothing back his hair before refluffing it expertly. “I’m game. But Sasha’s buying my drink because she’s being a bully.”

Martin nodded, rocking on his toes behind Jon. “I’m in. But the snow is intense. Bundle up if you don’t want frostbite.”

Silence stretched in front of Jon. Of course he hadn’t thought to bring a coat today. There was no way his sweater could weather the snowstorm going on outside. He’d have to say no and wait it out, hope the snow dies down. Or he could just embrace it. The park wasn’t _that_ far away…Four or five blocks. Not far enough to call a cab and too far to walk unprotected. Shit.

He’d been quiet for too long. The other three were poised, waiting for his response. “I don’t think you would let me say no if I tried,” he relented. Tim whooped and clapped Jon on the shoulder as he passed him, grabbing his coat and winding a scarf around his neck.

“That’s the spirit, Sims! C’mon, get your coats and we’ll leave before the weather gets worse.” Jon meandered into his office, the chill hanging in the air, and searched the room for any abandoned coats he may have left behind. He was a bit forgetful (and a bit of a packrat) but he was pretty sure he’d taken home his forgotten clothes before Halloween, when Tim was threatening to dress up as him for the archive party Sasha had hosted. The only thing he found was a pair of fingerless gloves, abandoned in his desk drawer. He slipped them on, flexing his hands against the knit fabric, and shrugged inwardly. It would have to do.

Jon closed the door to his office, locking it as he did so, before turning to see his assistants standing in the hallway, wincing at the lights they shone at him. “Jon? Where’s your coat?” Sasha’s voice was equal parts accusing and patient, like reminding a child to wash their hands.

“I-well, I didn’t bring one today,” Jon flushed like he had been caught in a lie. “The snow wasn’t that bad when I left the house. And I, I don’t like the way it feels to wear one.” He held up hands helplessly. “I have _these._ ”

Martin crossed his arms over his vested chest and the tails of his scarf. “It’s too cold for you to go out there without a jacket on. Too windy. You’ll catch pneumonia and die or something.”

“You can’t catch _pneumonia_ like that, Martin. It’s a wives’ tale.”

“You get what I mean! You can’t just wear a sweater and button up and fingerless gloves of all things and call it winter gear.”

Tim was stroking his chin thoughtfully, head cocked. “Would the old married couple shut up? I think I have something.” He took off his coat and unzipped the inside, extricating a fleece lining from the waterproof shell. “Here,” he draped it over Jon’s shoulder when he refused to take it. “If you don’t wear it, Martin has to buy all our coffees. You wouldn’t want to do that to sweet ol’ Marto, would you?”

Jon shrugged on the coat, grateful for the dark to hide his scowl and blush.

Sasha let out a noise of realization. “Oh! I have something too.” She disappeared and returned in less than a minute, holding out a knitted cap of some kind. “I keep a spare for when it’s too cold down here.” The inside was soft, lined with silk or satin or something, and Jon could feel some sort of applique on the side. Realizing there was no way he was going to win this fight, he tugged on the hat, frowning at the way it squished down the knot of hair he had so carefully arranged to be just the right amount of messy and structured.

Martin was stepping forward now as well, stooping slightly to wind a scarf around Jon’s neck and gently tucking the ends into the neck of the fleece. “Uh, here.”

“I-hm,” Jon struggled for words, feeling warm from more than just the new apparel. “Thank you, all of you, I suppose. I’ll-ah, I’ll give them back to you after.”

“No rush!” Tim nudged Jon with his shoulder as he grabbed Sasha’s hand, pulling her through the hallway to the stairwell. “Come on, I need the most expensive drink they sell in my belly, pronto!”

As the Archival staff left the Institute, they waved goodbye and wished a Happy Christmas to Rosie, who was packing up her own desk. They pushed themselves through the rotating door, immediately bowing their heads against the blinding white snow and the buffeting wind.

“Shit,” Martin said, pocketing his glasses. “No point in having these out. The one day I don’t bother with contacts. Are we sure we shouldn’t cab?” Jon glanced at the road, somewhere between slush and ice.

“I don’t trust lorry drivers on a good day.” Martin hummed an agreement.

Sasha led the way, the four keeping tight together against the wind and cold, the whirling of the snow drowning out all conversation, save for Tim’s occasional directions via his smartphone. Jon removed his own wire-rimmed glasses eventually, tired of them fogging up and of the snow melting into blurred spots, obscuring his vision even more. Martin held out his hand and Jon passed them over for Martin to put in his pocket. There was no one else out on the streets, no cars, no people. Jon imagined as they walked that they were the only four left in London, cursed to wander alone forever. His theory was proven wrong, however, when eventually the warm orange lighting of the coffee shop beckoned, the name _Bean Village_ painted on the window.

“I think Sash’s name was better,” Tim declares in a low voice as they stamp their feet against the welcome mat and shake off snow from their hair and clothes. Jon removes the knitted cap to see the faux leather flower applique and the embroidered “S” he hadn’t been able to see in the dark, chuckling to himself and stuffing the mauve hat in his pocket. Their faces were all various toned shades of pink and the heavy heat of the air of the café, smelling strongly like coffee beans, vanilla, and cinnamon, made Jon’s once-numb nose and cheeks tingle as they were brought back to life.

Jon squinted at the chalk-written menu, moving to push up his glasses only to feel his hand falter when he found the nosepiece not there. “Oh-uh, Martin. Can I have my glasses?”

Martin frowned. “Ah, huh? Oh! Yes-yes, of course, sorry!” He fumbled for Jon’s glasses, drying the remaining melted snow on the hem of his shirt before handing them back.

The Magnus Institute’s archival staff were the only four customers in the store at present and made a point to order probably more than necessary, scones and muffins (blueberry for Martin and Sasha, cinnamon for Martin, a pumpkin muffin for Jon) in addition to the teas and coffees (chai lattes for Jon and Martin, a caramel latte for Sasha, and some sort of ridiculously sweet mocha for Tim), despite it being barely eleven in the morning. Jon saw Martin make a point to slip some extra money into the tip jar as well, feeling warmth bloom in his chest as he decided to do the same.

Honestly, this, squeezed into a booth, leaning into Martin’s side, with Tim and Sasha across from him, chatting, swapping stories, and sharing some institute-related memes Tim had drawn up on his phone, was the best Christmas gift Jon could have imagined.


End file.
